Page 20 of Just a Little White Lie

Luke was so good about the whole thing. He doesn’t make me talk about what happened or how I thought my life was over.

That woman.

I shake my head, resisting the urge to growl.

Flicking the bathroom door shut, I strip and throw my sweaty clothes in the corner.

As I step under the hot spray, I remind myself that Luke is a solid guy. He was there for me when I needed someone practical and unemotional to take me in and get me back on my feet. He’d do anything for me, which is why I respect his space, his house—and why I need to seriously stop having the hots for his sister.

LAUREN

Earn me some money.

Earn me some money.

I keep the mantra going as I pull into the school grounds and search for a parking spot. This place is definitely rich. I can feel the wealthy vibes emanating from the paint, wafting up from the perfectly kept fields and drifting over Luke’s car as I park in between a black Maserati and a white Tesla.

I’m nervous that I’ve parked in the wrong place—teachers do not earn enough to own these kinds of cars. Ugh. I’ve probably gone and parked myself in the student lot. Although Haven Academy is a boarding school, a lot of day students attend from the Cambridge and Hamilton area.

Grabbing my shiny handbag, I lift it onto my shoulder and pull my dress straight.

“You belong here,” I remind myself as I clip toward the office. It’s a little trick I learned when trying to weasel my way into flash hotels and bars. My friends and I would dress to look the part, then eyeball each other and say, “You belong here.” Then six pretty ladies dressed to the nines would strut into wherever the hell we wanted. We ended up swimming in luxury pools and dining in world-class restaurants with guests who didn’t even know we weren’t staying at the hotel.

It was pretty freaking awesome.

Not that I’m walking into a five-star anything right now.

As the glass sliding doors automatically open into the school reception area, I’m brought back to reality with a thud. A student in a burgundy blazer and tartan skirt walks past me, giving me a sideways glance before smoothing back her blonde ponytail and walking out the opposite glass doors. She meets up with a couple tall boys who obviously think they’re men. They flank her, and the Blazer Brigade marches into the heart of the school.

My stomach sinks.

I’m about to spend my day teaching a bunch of snooty teenagers because I was dumb enough to rack up huge amounts of debt that I now have to pay back. Thank God my parents aren’t charging me interest. They may not be talking to me right now, but at least they’re showing a little mercy.

What’s not merciful is me having to do a job I’ve come to dread in order to earn nothing for myself.

I honestly didn’t go into teaching thinking I’d end up feeling this way about it, and it hasn’t been all bad. There have been moments of light amongst it all. Interacting with the friendly, polite students is a joy. It’s the heinous little turds who don’t want to be there that make it hard work. Plus, the hours of marking, grading, writing assessments, and dealing with school politics and rigid systems.

It wore me down. Put me off.

But what else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I’ve got the money to retrain in anything, and unless I meet and marry a billionaire quick-smart, I’m screwed.

I have to work.

“May I help you?” A soft voice to my left captures my attention.

“Good morning.” I put on a bright smile and clip toward her, then tap my painted nail on the shiny counter. “My name is Lauren Fillion. I’m here to do some relief teaching today.”

“Oh, of course.” The receptionist smiles at me and starts typing something on her keyboard. “Sign in, please.”

I mess around with the iPad, signing in and then having to wait another couple minutes for Mr. Van Weiss.

He strides out of his office, buttoning his jacket and giving me a tight smile. He’s younger than I expected. Maybe mid-thirties? He’s clean cut with a pleasant smile and has just a touch of frazzle about him, like maybe heistoo young to be in such a big role.

“Good morning.” After quick introductions and a firm handshake, he walks me through the school while talking a hundred miles an hour.

“Please, call me Erik.” He looks harried and overworked, and my intestines start tying themselves into knots. “We have a strict dress code, so please encourage the students to keep themselves looking smart. We expect them to be respectful no matter how they’re feeling and to show up to class on time. There’s a late roster you can fill in on our intranet, plus a misdemeanor record that we like to keep updated. Things like phones in class—they’re not allowed—and just the normal stuff like any form of disrespect or slacking off in their studies. This is a top school, so we expect top behavior.”

I nod, struggling to take it all in… and keep up with his hurried pace.

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